


Recognition

by curly184



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Iraq, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 17:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21019541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curly184/pseuds/curly184
Summary: Ronald Speirs can always recognise another soldier.  Always.He watches the man in the grocery store, quietly and unassumingly selecting some peaches and placing them in his basket, and Ron knows. Knows that this man has been where he has been, seen what he has seen.The man glances up and catches Ron watching him.  He looks for a moment with dark eyes, dark eyebrows furrowed slightly until his lips quirk up in the tiniest smile and he gives a slight nod.  The man recognises the soldier in Ron too.





	Recognition

Ronald Speirs can always recognise another soldier. _Always_. It’s like he shares a secret hand shake or some other form of clandestine communication with them, something unseen and unspoken. He’s often wondered how he knows, how he got the ability to pick out a soldier in a room full of people dressed in civvies. Maybe it’s something in the way they hold themselves, upright and slightly tense, the way they always look ready. Or maybe it’s something in their eyes, a sort of sadness than takes up residence behind the eyes of people who have seen too much.  
  
He watches the man in the grocery store, quietly and unassumingly selecting some peaches and placing them in his basket, and Ron _knows_. Knows that this man has been where he has been, seen what he has seen. He watches him for a moment, takes in his pale skin and dark, messy hair, his slim frame and the jeans that fitted once but now hang loose and low on his hips, the battered converse and the plain black t-shirt.  
  
The man glances up and catches Ron watching him. He looks for a moment with dark eyes, dark eyebrows furrowed slightly until his lips quirk up in the tiniest smile and he gives a slight nod. The man recognises the soldier in Ron too. Ron nods in return and turns back to gathering the items he came into the store to get. But he finds himself wondering about the man; what he did over there, and where exactly _there_ was.  
  
He is brought out of his thoughts by a yell in the next aisle and the sound of glass shattering. The dark haired man immediately drops his basket and runs towards the yelling. Ron finds himself following, vaguely hoping that he can help somehow.  
  
A teenager lies on the floor surrounded by the broken glass from jars and bottles that appear to have fallen from where he was stacking them on a shelf. Blood seeps through his trousers and pools on the ground beneath him. Ron watches as the man kneels beside the him, “Hey Alley,” he says, reading the name badge on the boy’s uniform, “I’m Eugene, you’re gonna be okay, I got you.”  
  
Ron watches as the man - _Eugene_ \- rips the leg of the boy's pants open to see the wound.  
  
"Call an ambulance and bring me a first aid kit," the man says to no one in particular, never taking his eyes off the boy.   
  
There are shards of glass imbedded in the boy's leg and Ron can't help but wince as he watches the man pull them out one by one, all the while talking in a soft, soothing tone, “it ain’t that bad, ain’t that bad, you’re gonna be okay."  
  
After removing the biggest pieces of glass, Eugene wraps the wounds in bandages and continues to reassure the boy until the paramedics arrive. Ron watches as the man relays details of the injuries and treatment he provided to the paramedics as he helps them get Alley into the ambulance.  
  
“Thanks, Doc,” one of the paramedics says, "see you on your next shift, no doubt." The door of the ambulance is slammed shut and Ron watches it speed off across the carpark.  
  
He heads back into the store to retrieve his groceries. It’s late, past closing time and the staff are keen to get home. Ron is also eager to get home, it’s been an unexpectedly long day. He makes his way across the dark car park and loads the bag of groceries into his truck. He grabs a bottle of water and takes a long swallow when something catches his attention and causes him to look around. He doesn’t see anything or hear anything, and after a moment he moves to climb into the truck. Then he sees movement down the side of the store and heads towards it.  
  
He finds the doc, Eugene, leaning against the wall, struggling to catch his breath.  
  
“You okay?” he asks.  
  
The man looks up at him, his forehead damp, eyes wide with panic and visably trembling as he clutches wildly at Ron’s arms when Ron moves closer to him.  
  
“Hey, you’re okay. Nice at easy, nice and easy,” Ron says. _Fuck_. He looks around for someone, _anyone_, who might be able to help. But they are entirely alone in the empty car park and there is nobody else to help the man. He knows enough to recognise that the man is having a panic attack, and he has watched Lipton coach enough people through them to have an idea of what to do. _Why the fuck isn't Lipton here?_ he thinks to himself. _Or Winters?_ _Hell, even Harry or Nixon would probably be better at this than he is._  
  
“Sit down,” Ron says, lowering himself to the ground and tugging the man down with him. Ron positions himself so that the man's back is pressed against his chest. He feels uncomfortable having a stranger in his personal space, but he forces aside his own feelings and focuses on what Eugene needs. “Breathe with me,” Ron says, “in through your nose and out through your mouth.”  
  
Eugene squirms, trying to wriggle away, the close proximity to someone he doesn't know probably adding to his feelings of unease. Unfazed, Ron just holds him firmly, his arms wrapped tightly around Eugene's shoulders. The man protests about that too, trying to free himself from Ron's grip. Ron doesn't let go, doesn't loosen his hold. He vaguely remembers being told that being held, that feeling of pressure, can help to ground someone in the throes of anxiety. It can help them feel safe, and right now, Eugene needs to feel safe.  
  
Ron continues to breathe in and out in a steady, exaggerated way, coaching the man to breathe with him and ignoring the sharp sting of finger nails digging into the bare skin of his forearms. Slowly, so fucking slowly Ron thought it would never happen, the man's breathing begins to settle. He's no longer gasping for breath, but Ron can feel that he is still trembling. Neither of them move, Ron sits quietly with the man slumped against him, his thumbs idly rubbing circles on the man’s arms.  
  
“M'sick,” the man manages to mumble after a few minutes. He lurches forward onto his hands and knees and retches, bringing up little else than water. Ron hands him the bottle of water he had fortunately brought over from his truck and the man gratefully takes a mouthful. He is still shaking, and he looks pale. Too pale. Without thinking, or knowing what he is doing exactly, Ron places his hand on the mans forehead, brushing his hair back and feeling the clammy dampness of his skin. His fingers linger for a moment and then he moves back, pulling the man back into their earlier position and returns to gently stroking the man's arms.  
  
He finds himself studying the man, his sharp jaw and high cheekbones. His eyes are closed, his eyebrows furrowed slightly and his long, dark eyelashes fanning prettily over his pale cheeks. His black hair, too long and too messy for a soldier, looks so soft that Ron wants to touch it. He is slim, small, and has neither the height nor the bulk Ron has, but Ron can feel lean muscle beneath the fabric of the man's shirt.  
  
Eventually, no longer trembling quite so violently, and looking decidedly less pale, the man shifts away from him. “Sorry,” he says with a small, apologetic smile.  
  
Ron just shakes his head as he hands the man the bottle of water again. He takes it gratefully and swallows a couple of mouthfuls before handing it back. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up more than it already is.  
  
“I’m Ron," he says, for lack of anything else to say, "Ron Speirs.”  
  
“Eugene Roe,” the man replies softly. He’s still shaking and when he moves to get up, Ron pulls him back down.  
  
“Sit here awhile, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone just yet.”  
  
Eugene doesn’t protest, just sits down beside Ron and pulls his legs up to his chin, wrapping his arms around himself.  
  
“You wanna tell me about it?” Ron asks, because he feels he should, because it feels like something Lipton would ask.  
  
Eugene gives a shrug, “Not much to tell, it happens sometimes,” he picks at a loose thread on his sleeve, “getting better though.”  
  
“Where were you?”  
  
“Afghanistan. Bagram Airfield, the field hospital.” Eugene replies, confirming Ron’s suspicions that the man had been a medic. “What about you?”  
  
“Iraq the first time, then Afghanistan. Helmand Provence.”  
  
“You going back?” Eugene asks, glancing at Ron.  
  
“Maybe. I don’t know," Ron shrugs. "I don't know how to do anything apart from the army. What about you?”  
  
Beside him, Eugene shakes his head, “Not if I can help it.”  
  
Ron can't think of anything to say to that. It's how most people feel. _Most normal people._ It’s certainly how Winters and Nixon and Lipton felt after coming home from their first tour. But Ron had been unable to settle when he came home from Iraq, and he’d jumped at the chance of a tour in Afghanistan. And now that he is home from a second tour, he feels lost. People told him it would pass, but nearly ten months since coming home and he sometimes thinks he has never missed anything the way he misses the army, the way he misses combat.  
  
“I oughta let you get home,” Eugene says eventually, getting to his feet, “I’ve kept you long enough.” He offers Ron a hand and pulls him up.  
  
“Let me give you a ride home,” Ron says, noticing that his car is the only one in the parking lot.  
  
“No need,” Eugene smiles, "I just live over there,” he points to a red brick apartment building across the road.  
  
“Toccoa?” Ron asks  
  
"Moved in last week.”  
  
“I live there too, jump in.” Uncharacteristically, he wonders if he should explain to Eugene that he stopped by the grocery store on his way home from a long day at work, and that he's not so lazy he wont walk the 500 yards from the front door of their building to the store.  
  
They stand awkwardly in the lobby of the building, Ron balancing the bag of groceries in his arms.  
  
“Thanks for..." Eugene trails off, looking down at the floor, his cheeks reddening. Like any soldiers, Ron knows he has been conditioned not to acknowledge weakness.  
  
“No worries,” Ron replies and begins walking towards his apartment as Eugene heads to the stairs.  
  
“Eugene?” he calls to him, turning back after a few steps. “You know you’re not alone, right? You’re not the only one who….”  
  
“I know," Eugene murmurs quietly.  
  
“Good,” Ron nods. “Um, if you ever wanna talk or need anything, I’m in 101,” he gestures down the hall towards his apartment.  
  
Eugene smiles, a real smile, “506,” he says.  
  
“Night, Eugene,”  
  
“G'night, Ron."  
  



End file.
